The Art of Longing
by GSquare3
Summary: What happens after Fitz wakes up.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: He's Awake

Olivia wasn't quite sure what to say. The heat of the cell phone against her cheek acted as a reminder that she actually had to say words since Cyrus was unable to read the expressions flitting across her face. She cleared her throat.

"What do you mean he's awake?"

"I mean Fitzgerald Grant is awake and he's asking for you." Cyrus responded

"What?" Olivia said, her voice sounding soft and weak, so unlike the clipped tones she usually spoke in. "I don't understand, what…what are you saying?"

"Olivia we can stay on the phone with you asking me stupid questions and me answering your stupid questions or we can stop playing this stupid game where we waste time talking about your disbelief at the fact that Fitzgerald Grant has finally opened the pretty blue eyes you've been losing sleep over for the past month since he was shot."

Olivia took a deep breath. "Right. Of course, you're right. I'll_um, I'll_"

"For heaven's sake Olivia get your ass down here now!" Cyrus said before promptly hanging up her.

Olivia held the dead phone in her hand, feeling the weight of it draw her arm down to her side while she repeated over and over again to herself the same refrain: He's awake. He's awake. He's awake. She didn't realize her whole body was shaking until she heard the phone clatter against the floor beneath her.

Fitz had woken up from a coma that the doctors told her could last anywhere from a couple hours to forever. And yet although a couple hours had long passed and forever was months and months away, Fitz was awake. He was awake and he was asking for her. So she went.

Although Cyrus had sounded testy on the phone, upon seeing him, Olivia noticed that the light that had left his eyes in the month since Fitz was shot had returned.

He clasped her shaking hands between his. "Well, that didn't take too long. Honestly the way you sounded when I told you, I wouldn't have been surprised if you'd fainted. In fact if you hadn't shown up, I told myself I would go to your house to make sure you were still vertical and functioning."

She laughed although the furrow between her brow grew deeper instead of disappearing.

"How can you joke about this. About any of this. I feel like I'm going to explode with everything that I'm feeling right now."

"How can I joke?" Cyrus asked with a booming laugh. "Olivia, don't you see that everything is all better now. That thug Sally Langston is going to be booted out on her rear and I can finally stop babysitting."

Cyrus spat out the word like it was profane.

"Cyrus." Olivia said, "Don't even try to front, I know you love that baby."

"And I want to keep loving her. Trust me, spending all my available time with her is not the best way to accomplish this. In fact it just encourages other less amenable feelings. Don't you know babies are best loved from very, very far away? That way I can appreciate her chubby cheeks and milky smiles without having the evidence of said milk splattered against my T-shirt when said cheeks belch out milky burps!"

Olivia impatiently tapped her bitten nails against the fabric of her grey trousers. They both knew that she hadn't come here to discuss Sarah, Cyrus' newly adopted baby.

"Is Mellie here?" She asked

"She's gone to pick up some of Fitz's things from_"

"Surely she could have sent someone to pick up his things for her, I mean I would think if I were lucky enough to be here when he opened his eyes that I wouldn't want to leave his side so much so that I would send someone to go pick up his damn_"

Olivia's voice broke. She pressed her trembling hand against her mouth.

"Olivia," Cyrus said softly, "I think the clothes were just an excuse. Fitz is asking for you. Mellie didn't want to be here while…"

"Of course not." Olivia said pulling herself back together.

In the course of grieving for Fitz she had forgotten her role in their little Greek tragedy. She played the part of the selfish, dirty mistress. All the nights of the past month crying and clinging to her pillow for comfort, longing for Fitz to open his eyes had served to make her forget. It was funny that she afforded herself more honor while he lay unconscious, but now that the one thing she had been longing for had finally happened, she castigated herself once more. How despicable was she? That she would make The Wife feel she had to leave The Husband's bedside because The Mistress insisted on seeing him.

However, despite the reemergence of Olivia's self-loathing, it wasn't enough to keep her from Fitz. If she was to be the dirty mistress in this play, at least she could be the dirty mistress that got to hold the philandering husband when he opened the eyes she'd never thought she'd see open and lucid again.

"I'm sorry about that. I am. It's not fair that she should have to_"

"You don't have to justify yourself to me Olivia. I'm just happy he's awake and we can exorcise that impostor from the White House once and for all. If you played a part in waking him up so that I could drag that wannabe out of the oval then you have my eternal gratitude. Besides, Mellie is a big girl. She'll get over it."

"Is he still in the…Where is he?" Olivia asked

"He's straight through there." Cyrus said pointing at the innocuous room at the end of the hallway.

Olivia nodded and began walking towards the room.

She paused and turned around, "How do I look?"

She had thrown together her outfit seemingly in a daze not bothering to scrutinize the particulars of what she put on her body. The result was a mish-mash selection of clothes consisting of grey dress trousers, hot pink flats, a beige negligee underneath a cable knit button down sweater.

At Cyrus' telling silence, Olivia rushed to add, "I didn't have time to, that is I know I should have spent more time putting together a cohesive outfit. I just wanted to get here as quickly as possible."

Cyrus gave her a small smile. "Olivia, I don't think that man would care if you walked in wearing a chicken suit."

Olivia felt the relief rush through her. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until that too came out of her in a rush.

"Right." She said, walking to the door. She placed her hand on the handle, "Right." She said again before pushing it open and walking through.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2: The Shape of Her Mouth

The first thing he noticed, the first thing he always noticed, was the shape of Olivia's mouth. The slopes and bows of which, Fitz imagined he could trace in his sleep. He remembered those heady months when he'd been allowed to trace the dips and curves of her lips with _his_ mouth and then with his tongue. It was strange how one could never grasp the specific traits about old lovers that would come back to haunt them. For Fitz, it was always Olivia's lips.

He used to imagine he could taste them while he lay in bed, hard and longing for her, as he slept next to Mellie. Several times this past month (and the doctors had told him he'd been out for a full month) he imagined he'd felt them against his while he'd been trapped in his own body unable to move, unable to kiss her back. And now Olivia, with her trembling lips, stood merely a foot away from him. He felt himself harden in response. He tried to disguise his reaction to her by shifting the sheets around strategically on his lap. Blankets sufficiently rearranged, Fitz welcomed her with an easy smile.

"Livy."

She let out his name on a breath. "Fitz."

She rushed towards his bed seemingly unable to help herself. She reached out to him. But before her hand could make contact with him, she drew it back, clasping her hands together instead.

"You look so good. I expected you to look like shit."

He laughed, "Thanks. Just what a man wants to hear from the woman he's_"

"N-n-no." She said shaking her head, "That's not…I mean, that's not what I_I meant that you, I meant that you look so...normal."

Fitz chuckled again. "Normal? Fantastic. I guess this is what people mean when they talk about damning with faint praise."

Olivia looked agitated and nervous as she ran her fingers through her hair. "N-n-no, not normal per say, I mean you look so much better than…that is you always look amazing...b-b-but given the circumstances I thought_"

Fitz rarely saw Olivia so out of sorts. Even in the last anxiety-fraught days of their affair before she'd left him with only a note to explain her absence, she had always been so put together. He would be falling all over himself in his increasingly desperate attempts to get her to stay with him; to get her to realize that what they had was worth everything. He would be executing verbal gymnastics to show her that the way they felt about each other was worth preserving at the expense of anything else. In response, she would be so cool as she countered all his impassioned arguments, so collected as she presented rational explanations of her own.

In those days, the only times he would see her truly lose control were when she was writhing in sweet agony beneath him. At those times she was all whispered pleas, trembling lips, and soft, pliable skin. He used to live for those moments when he would see her fly apart simply from the touch of his lips against her neck, his hand between her thighs, his cock thrusting deep into her as he claimed her as his own. He couldn't help but be reminded of that Olivia while she stood stammering and shaking before him. A nervous Olivia was as adorable to him as she was arousing.

"I'm just teasing you, Livy." He said, "The truth is, I feel great. Well, as great as I _can_ feel after taking a bullet to the head, I guess." He finished with a smile.

"Please, don't joke about it." She said, her right hand held up to stop any further words that sought to make light of the situation, "You have no idea how much this has been killing me. The fact that somebody did this to you right after all that crap I said to you. I feel so much regret and you have no_"

Her voice broke and her warm brown eyes filled with tears. Fitz felt something in his heart lurch and he wondered if he would ever stop loving her, if it was possible for him to ever stop wanting her the way that he did. It seemed to him that he had made a fine art of longing for Olivia Pope. If there was a class, he would surely be the most qualified person to teach the subject.

He could instruct his students on how to stop and listen, wholly enthralled, whenever they heard a woman's laugh that sounded slightly like Olivia's. He could show them how to clamp down on their arousal when they smelled perfume that reminded them of Olivia's natural strawberry lemon scent. He could guide them through the steps of doing increasingly complex multiplications in their head to keep at bay thoughts of Olivia's supple body wrapped around that of another man. He could teach them all those small distractions that he had cultivated. All those little rituals, which hinted at the breadth of his longing for a woman that could never truly belong to him.

However, multiplication tables hadn't been enough to save Fitz from the torment of the pictures of Olivia smiling at Senator Davis. Before he was shot, those pictures had been all he could think about. He had tossed and turned in bed torturing himself as he imagined the two of them together. He wondered if she was the same way with Edison as she was with him.

When Fitz was inside Olivia, as close to her as one could be with another person, she would moan all manner of things. The words she gasped as he plunged into her repeatedly would vary every time. Except for the moment when she was about to orgasm. The words she said in those crucial few minutes, before they both toppled over the edge, were always the same. Her sharp little fingernails would be digging into his back and her whole body would be strung into a tight arch. All of her limbs seeming to reach for the ecstasy that only he could deliver. In those few minutes her words would sound more like breathy wisps of air than any real intelligible phrases.

Clutching tight to him, she would gasp out over and over again, "Oh Fitz, oh Fitz, oh Fitz."

She always said it like a prayer, and he never failed to feel closer to god at the sound of Olivia gasping his name. When she came, she would groan it out. Wisps of her black hair would be clinging to her dewy temples, and her neck would be tilted back at an unnatural angle. With an expression on her face that was almost like pain, she would moan his name in one drawn out syllable, low and deep. With the sound of her orgasm ringing in his ears, Fitz would tumble over the precipice with her.

Looking at those pictures of her smiling at Edison, he tormented himself. Did she groan out his name too? Was she almost unintelligible in her passion with him as well? The questions filled him with the most acute pain. Fitz thought Olivia could have chosen to cut him and it would hurt less than his desperate imaginings of her with the Senator. After the pain came anger, anger at the Senator for attempting to claim someone that belonged to _him_ and anger at Olivia for running into the Senator's arms when Fitz's arms were open and waiting for her to fill them.

He was surprised, when he opened his eyes to find Mellie waiting beside him, that he still felt so angry with Olivia. He'd let her go, as she demanded, before he was shot. But clearly his anger at having been forced to do so managed to outlast the effects of the gunshot wound. The same anger filled him now as Olivia took a deep breath and continued speaking.

"I feel such regret," She said again, "About everything. I don't know what I was thinking when I asked you to let me go, but_"

"Livy," He said trying to stop her.

"No, let me finish." She said, "You've always been so forthcoming about the way that you felt and I took it for fucking granted. I took you for granted." She pressed her lips together. "And then I thought I'd lost you."

"Liv," He tried again.

"It was so horrible." Her breath was coming out of her in harsh spurts, "And then I wondered if you'd even want to see me when you managed to come out of it. You have no idea how grateful I am that you still wanted to see me. And I'm so sorry Fitz." She said moving closer to his bed, "I'm so sorry and I still_"

"Olivia," Fitz said firmly.

She stopped speaking. He swallowed. He knew what he was about to say would change things for her the way they had already changed for him. When he'd woken up still feeling so angry with Olivia, seeing Mellie all hunched and sad by his bed had decided things for him. Olivia had forced him to let her go, and when he did she seemed to have left him easily. It seemed she was always leaving him, rejecting him regardless of how much he raged and begged her not to. And yet Mellie stayed, through years of his cold silences and indifference, she endured.

Fitz didn't know if he could ever love Mellie. He didn't know if he could ever stop loving Olivia. He didn't know if he could ever give up the art of longing for her. But after waking up and seeing the bags under Mellie's eyes and the sad tilt of her mouth, all those signs of her grief coupled with his persisting anger at Olivia decided him. He had let her go and he wouldn't draw her back to him no matter how much he might want to.

"Fitz?" Olivia asked. Her brow furrowed in confusion.

"I asked Cy to call you here so we could discuss the best strategy of releasing the news that I'm awake now to the press."

* * *

A/N: Dear gladiators,

Before you flame me for this chapter (don't flame me!) know that I believe that Fitz and Olivia are the endgame. But you know what your mother used to say about delayed gratification… :) Now that that's done, I wanted to thank you all for the kind reviews! Remember more reviews will always lead to faster updates!

Much love from your equally Scandal Obsessed Friend (SOF In Crime? SOFIC?),

GSquare3


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3: All Her Convenient Excuses

Olivia felt like a fool. A fool and like something worse. Some low, lying, rationalizing, unworthy thing. She had been using Huck as an excuse. The name of a man who would do anything for her served as her convenient answer to all of Edison's justified questions about the status of their relationship.

Edison would call her and she'd let it go to voicemail only deigning to send quick texts like: "Huck arrested.", "Is innocent.", "Must free him.", "Talk later." Olivia couldn't even spare him an "I miss you" or an apology for her absence. Instead she sent curt, sparse messages as if they still lived in the era of long distance telegrams when people were charged by the word.

If he did manage to get her on the phone, he would ask to see her and she would respond with, "One of the people I'm closest to in the world is being held without trial somewhere. So I'm sorry if I can't go on a date with you, Edison. I'm sorry if I can't play the perfect girlfriend right now. I'm a little preoccupied."

With her words she sought to make him feel guilty for even suggesting that he deserved to spend time with her.

But then Edison showed up at her apartment. In his spotless, black coat, he showed up at her door with all the worry he felt for her written in the lines of his familiar face. When she let him in, he'd said all the right things in the exact right way. But as he stood in her apartment talking while rubbing soothing patterns unto her arm, she had never been surer that all his earnest, right words were being wasted on the wrong woman. And like water through a sieve, all those well-intentioned words passed right through her failing to touch her the way he meant them to.

That night when Edison offered to be a shoulder for her to lean on, Olivia knew she had to feed him the blackest form of subterfuge to get him to leave her alone to mourn in peace over the true source of her grief.

"I don't have time for leaning, Edison." She said sharply all the while hating herself as she watched his face fall, "Huck is being framed. Do you understand that? He's being framed for treason. And there's a hole somewhere out there. A dark hole. A cold hole. And he's being held in the depths of all that cold darkness for a crime he did not commit. So no, Edison, I can't lean. The time for leaning has passed. He needs me. More than ever, Huck needs me. And I would appreciate it if you didn't try to make me feel guilty for wanting to be there for him in his time of need."

The lie had been enough. She had known it would be even before watching him turn, defeated, as he walked out of her apartment. Before he left, she had said she would call him. That was the only part of the whole charade that allowed her to face herself in the mirror when she got up in the morning. The fact that she had apologized and told him that she'd call once she managed to prove Huck's innocence. It had to be enough.

Olivia told herself that given the circumstances, even a saint wouldn't ask her to give Edison any more than the empty reassurances she had offered him. With all her convenient excuses shielding her from being held accountable for the inexcusable way she treated him, Olivia had closed the door and allowed the pain of missing Fitz to consume her once more.

But now standing in front of Fitz and listening to him say that he had only wanted the Olivia that was the new Press Secretary and not the one who had been wanting and missing him for the past month that he lay unconscious in bed. Olivia felt like the worst kind of fool.

"Oh." She said, taking deep breaths in her attempt to hold herself together, "I see. Of course…you would…want to discuss…to discuss…our…our_"

"Our public relations strategy," Fitz finished for her.

"Right. Our public relations strategy."

"I'm sorry," He said, "Cyrus told me about Britta Kagan and he said you'd returned full time to the White House to act as the Press Secretary in her stead. But I can see from your reaction that you were clearly coerced into the role under duress and I'm sorry. Of course, I completely understand if you want to return to running your_"

"No." Olivia said, "No, I wasn't coerced…Fitz." She forced herself to continue, "It's just so strange to be talking to you like…like the past month didn't happen. Like it didn't change so many things for both of us."

"The assassination attempt on my life doesn't have to change anything. Not if that's not what you want. All the pieces can still remain where you left them before I was shot."

The tight set of Fitz's jaw told Olivia that they were no longer talking about her new role as the Press Secretary. She realized with belated surprise that Fitz was angry with her.

"So if you want to resign from your role as Press Secretary to The White House and return back to OPA, that is entirely up to you." Fitz continued, "Other than the unfortunate death of Britta, it can be like turning back time. You can pretend this past month never happened. I'm sure Cy can arrange for your replacement." Fitz finished with a tight smile.

Considering all the lies she'd told, Olivia knew she had to make a solid claim about the way she wanted things to be, otherwise all the ways in which she'd hurt Edison would have been for nothing.

"What if I want to turn back time further?" She asked. Fitz flinched and she watched his left hand curl into a fist at his side.

She continued, "What if I want to return to a time before the night you were shot? What if I want to return to that stupid boulder," She sighed, "Where you painstakingly tied the shoelaces of those ugly boots because you didn't want me to twist my ankle chasing after you."

Fitz looked right at her then and she could tell from all the tight, straining angles of his body how much the conversation was costing him. Olivia stared into the deep blue of his eyes. She refused to make this easy for him.

Not when, despite the gauzy cloth wrapped around his forehead and the blue-purple bruises peppering his temples, he still looked more handsome than any gunshot victim had the right to look. Not when his wide shoulders spanned the expanse of the sizeable pillows behind him. Shoulders that reminded Olivia of all the times she'd leaned on Fitz for support and the times she'd curled her arms around them as he lay on top of her, cradled by her body. Not when she could still remember how gentle his large, capable hands had been when he'd slipped those ugly shoes unto her feet as they both surreptitiously tried to steal glances at one another. No, she would not make this easy.

"Fitz."

She saw the muscle in his jaw clench and release, clench and release.

"What if I want to turn the clock back further?" She asked again.

"I'm afraid that's not possible." He said.

For the first time since she'd entered the room, she straightened her spine and lifted her jaw. No one told Olivia Pope what was or was not possible. Not even the president of the United States of America.

"Alright." She said while planning on conceding nothing, "If we're going to discuss strategy, I'll just go get Cy."

* * *

A/N: Dear gladiators,

Thank you for all the kind reviews and the not so kind ones as well ;) It turns out I am not too partial about your flames even when they burn me. I just crave your feedback. It validates my Olitz-ridden soul! I hope you enjoy this chapter. And I hope you will leave me more wonderful, flame-ridden though some of them may be, reviews. As always more reviews are the surest, truest path to faster updates. Did Confucius say that? Actually I think he said: If Olivia's lip quivers and Fitz is not there to see it, did it really move?

Much love from your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: The Two Dancers

When Olivia left the room to get Cyrus, Fitz took himself to task. He repeated to himself all those arguments that had initially given him the strength to cut Olivia loose. He reminded himself of her aloofness in the face of his passion, her penchant for making hurtful decisions for the both of them and her unwillingness to make peace with the idea that a man could be married to one woman while remaining in love with another. She insisted on seeing both those situations as mutually exclusive and her stubbornness had cut him for long enough.

But interrupting all of his concerted efforts, to remind himself why they could not be together and why the love affair must end, were a series of adamant images. Images which, insisted that he had undertaken a task that was beyond him to accomplish. Images of how Olivia had looked standing beside his bed as she told him that she would turn back time if only he would let her. Images of how the brown skin of her slender neck caressed over her collarbone only to delve down deep into the dark mysteries beneath her lace negligee.

Upon thinking of that negligee, which was inexplicably paired with creased grey trousers, Fitz groaned. Olivia was never badly put together. So the haphazard nature of her clothes could only speak to the intensity of her desire to reach him as quickly as possible. He rubbed his hand roughly over his eyes. They had, in all the months of their affair, never been in a place where Olivia was the pursuer and he the pursued that refused to be caught. It was always the other way around. It was always him doing the chasing and pleading as she ran and resisted and refused. It was always him with the bags under his eyes, and his heart in her hands as he threw, like desperate arrows, all of his love for her at the cool of her tightly controlled reserve. There was only one other time…

They had stood facing each other in the rose garden, looking more like enemies come to do battle than lovers consumed by their love for each other. All her reserve had seemed to crack open, like a dam forced to give way by the demands of the tumultuous waters that harangued it, flooding him with sentiments that he'd thought he tended alone. She told him she couldn't breathe without him and _he_ was short of breath. She said she couldn't sleep without him and he thought of all the long nights devoid of sleep when he'd lain restless thinking only of her. Then she said she belonged to him. And Fitz knew that he had never wanted to possess anyone as much as he wanted to hold onto Olivia and have that hold be as permanent-unchangeable as time itself.

Fitz grit his teeth. But she left him he scolded himself. She left him. Only explaining her departure with a form letter of resignation. What good were all those words of love, and restless longing when she followed them with the impersonal ones tainting that letter? A letter which, negated everything she said in that garden of rose and unguarded hopes. In the end, all her words hadn't eased the hurt he felt when she left him. It was like a chunk had been hacked clean out of him and he hadn't been able to breathe. He hadn't been able to function. Where were all her words of it being the two of them in this together when he was shaking from the pain of missing her? It was what she did that mattered. And what she did was leave and he was alone. Fitz couldn't allow himself to again fight that hopeless battle of chasing and wanting and loving someone who left him to fight alone.

/

As Olivia entered the hallway, her mind was filled with all the steady resolve of a woman decided to do battle for her man. So she didn't notice Mellie standing next to Cyrus until she was almost on top of the both of them.

"Olivia," Cyrus said, "We were just talking about you."

Mellie smiled, "Speak of the devil, and the devil she will appear." She said, her right hand balanced on the curve of her formidable stomach, her left holding tight to a small suitcase.

"Mellie, I'm glad to see you're looking well." Olivia said.

Mellie looked resplendent with the glow of a woman creating a life she would soon set loose on the world.

She stroked her hand down the slope of her protruding belly, "I'm afraid that I can't say the same for you." She said looking pointedly from Olivia's shocking pink flats to the lint-ridden black of her sweater.

"Although I must say, it's nice to see that your outward appearance is finally beginning to match your moral…latitude." Mellie finished, all the distaste she felt for Olivia in the curl of her top lip and the narrowed slant of her eyes.

Olivia pursed her lips. The minute she had decided to fight for Fitz, she realized that both her and Mellie would continue to do this same dance. The one where they hurt and slighted each other with all the words they weren't saying and the things that they did that they shouldn't. Like a ballerina Mellie would continue pirouetting, the harsh angle of her arm gracefully slicing in cloaked insults as she twirled. More tap dancer than ballerina, Olivia was always able to stamp aside her insults, the rhythm of her feet insisting that Mellie could not, would not, hurt her. Not while Olivia danced under the protective umbrella that was Fitz's love. But now Fitz sought to withdraw that love allowing all the sharp rain of Mellie's disregard to pierce Olivia in a way it never had before.

"Cy," Olivia said choosing to let the jab go as she usually did, "Fitz wants us to discuss how we're going to proceed with releasing the news of his revival to the press."

Cyrus eyebrows lifted in surprise and Olivia imagined that he had also been in the dark about Fitz's unsentimental purpose in calling her there. However, his surprise was quickly discarded in favor of a flushed excitement.

"Do _you_ have any ideas about…" He trailed off, his eyes shining with glee, "I only wish I could be there to witness the look on that charlatan's face when she hears that the rightful owner of that office she sits so smugly in is finally awake to snatch it out of her clutching fingers. Better yet I'd like to listen in on her prayers after the news breaks. No telling what lovely words that pretender will have for her God then."

The wicked sparkle of Cyrus' eyes coupled with his impassioned words made both Mellie and Olivia laugh. For a minute the sound of their shared joy whirled in the air, all lofty pirouettes and fervent, stamping feet, the two dancers flitting together as one. But as the dance of their happiness receded into stillness once more, Olivia felt the same sadness that always stifled her whenever Mellie was near. In a different world, on a different stage, they could have been great partners who danced side by side. But, Olivia reminded herself; this was not that world. Instead the two dancers occupied a stage where they would always be rivals, each one seeking to obliterate the other with the rhythm and grace of their respective disciplines.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

Again I thank you for all the wonderful and kind reviews. You have no idea how much I enjoy and appreciate them. I hope you get equal pleasure from my angst-filled chapters :) As always more reviews will lead to quicker updates. So says the Buddha…little known fact, he is also a great fan of Olitz. I heard he was the one that asked the universally pondered question: What is the sound of one heart longing? I think Fitz would know the answer, if not, we can always ask Olivia.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Judge and the Jury

Mellie's hand was resting on Fitz's right shoulder. Her nails were perfectly manicured and painted a glossy pink. The kind of pink that lived blushing inside a conch shell before its winding, twisting spirals cast all color in dark shadow and everything turned black. Olivia wanted to point out the resting hand to Fitz as a sign, a symbol of something greater than common sense and good nail care.

Olivia had decided to go to law school when she was twelve after too many evenings spent watching episodes of Ally McBeal as her parents laughed and discussed politics behind her. And even though running OPA meant she was rarely at the courthouse, with its jury members in their neat boxes and its judge doling out neat punishments just in time for dinner, she knew exactly how Ally would advise she present this case.

Olivia imagined holding court in front of Fitz's bed. First she would address Cyrus, who would act as their sole juror. She would say, people of the jury and Cyrus would roll his eyes but she would ignore him since jury duty was an American responsibility. People of the jury, she imagined saying while holding fast unto Cyrus' irritated gaze; I'd like to point out the defendant's manicured nails as Exhibit Number 1.

Then she would ask Mellie to raise her hand, the one that rested so easily on Fitz's right shoulder; Olivia would ask Mellie to raise it. And Mellie would. Because one always had to do as told when they were under oath and in a court of law, regardless of their feelings concerning the lawyer that endeavored to discredit them.

And when Mellie held that hand high, the resting one currently holding Fitz's right shoulder captive, Olivia would point to it. All the anger, all the pain, all her feelings of being side-lined by a woman who would keep a manicure appointment as her husband lay unconscious in bed, would be in the accusation that was Olivia's pointing finger. As she highlighted that seashell pink nail, she would address the jury. She would address Cyrus.

"Do you think that is a woman in love?" She would ask him, "Do you think that is a woman in pain? Do you think that is a woman boiling with rage and anger that someone sought to put the man she loves dead in his grave before his time? Do you think all that calm, resting, smugness in the way she stands by him are signs of a woman standing by the man she loves?"

At this point she would turn from Cyrus to Fitz. After all he was the judge. He was the one that would hand out a verdict, which had the power to change the course of Olivia's life.

"Do you not see the lack of feeling in the way that manicured hand rests just so on your shoulder?" She'd say to him, "Do you not feel the complacency in the way she holds you, how _easily_ she holds you? As if it isn't a miracle that you're alive. Does it not disgust you that the nails on that hand are the same ones just a couple days ago getting painted by a manicurist, who no doubt wondered to herself why the hell the First Lady of the United States was bothering with a fucking manicure while the whole world waited to see if you would live or die? Does it not make you sick to your stomach?"

Without giving him a chance to respond, Olivia would hold up her own bitten-down, torn-up nails as Exhibit Number 2. With the hope that Fitz would see, all her ragged edges as a testament of her enduring love for him. Only then would she be happy for him to judge her as he saw fit.

/

Fitz could feel the energy buzzing in the room. It was so tangible that it was almost a fifth presence surrounding the four of them there. It was evident in the way Mellie's nails bit into his shoulder and in Cyrus' restless, darting eyes too. And Olivia, all that palpable energy was in her hand anxiously stroking a path from the center of her collarbone to her left shoulder. Fitz wanted to mark those anxious pathways with his mouth. Brushing his lips where her hand brushed. Touching reverent kisses where she touched. He looked away.

"Well," Cyrus said as he placed his hands on Olivia's shoulders, giving her what he hoped was a rousing shake, "The dream team is back together once more."

The sound of silence in the room was deafening. Undeterred, Cyrus moved to the center of the room.

"So," He said, "What's the plan of attack, then? What devious maneuvers have you come up with, Olivia?" He asked facing her once more.

"I_I, well, to be honest, I've been a little preoccupied, what with Fitz...the way he was, and…What I mean is_"

"But, how can that be?" Mellie asked with mock surprise, "Surely, you're not saying that the great, and honorable Olivia Pope is without a plan?"

"Mellie," Fitz said, a note of warning in his voice.

"No. I want to know," She continued, "If you don't have a plan, then Olivia, what exactly is your purpose here?" Mellie's voice grew colder, "I would imagine, and I'm certain that impartial parties would agree, that the only viable reason for you to be standing here, in my husband's room, is if there is some way for you to be of _just_ a little use to us. I mean what exactly are we paying you for, if you can't come up with even one, little_"

Fitz cut her off.

"Actually, Mellie, since I am not currently the acting president, we're _not _paying Olivia." Then he shifted an infinitesimal amount on his pillow. The move was just large enough to cause Mellie's resting hand to fall away from the support of his shoulder, "Even if I was acting president, her compensation would fall to the American Taxpayer."

"And I_"

Mellie voice rode loud and sharp over Olivia's, "Well, I fear they are not getting their money's worth." She said, "And as an American Taxpayer myself, I'd like refund _and_ I'd like_"

"Mellie_" Fitz said again.

Mellie continued talking, "Don't. She doesn't have a plan and_"

Olivia interjected, "I never said_"

"Fine." Mellie countered, "Then, I'd like_"

"_I'd _like someone to finish a damn sentence in this room!" Cyrus said, "Now I don't pretend to know the nooks and crannies of this…this little soap opera the three of you insist on…I don't pretend to know! And I don't _want_ to know." He said slamming his fist into his palm, "But what I _do_ know is that everyone in this room wants Fitz to reclaim his rightful role as president of this great country of ours. _That_ is what matters. _That_ is the only reason I'm here in this room and not at home with my smushy baby…so if the three of you are done acting like children…"

As they looked purposefully away from each other, the three of them duly chastised, Cyrus turned to Olivia, "You _do_ have a plan, don't you?"

Olivia gave a brief nod. "I do now." She said.

A manic smile, like the sun after a long, dark season of rains, broke out over Cyrus' face.

"Atta girl!"

* * *

A/N: Dear gladiators,

If the world ends, at least I got to visit The Land of Olitz one last time and carry you all along with me. I hope you enjoy this chapter. If morning comes tomorrow, and we don't perish with the dying of the night as the Mayans said we would, leave me love in the form of your reviews.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6: Her Song

Olivia was pacing back and forth wearing out the wooden expanse of floor that stretched from the front of Fitz's bed to the table on the far left-hand side of the room. There was such intoxicating music in the way she moved and Fitz could almost hear the notes as she eased from one corner to the next.

A G-sharp as tendrils of hair came loose from the messy bun at the nape of her neck. An A-minor as those wisps trembled with every step she took, fluttering lightly in the crackling air of the room as she walked. A sweet and simple C when her white teeth would flash sharp out of her mouth to bite down hard on her plump lower lip.

Then as her tongue flicked out to soothe away those tiny indentations made by her teeth, a low and deep G7 accompanied the action. And Fitz could feel all her chords as they slip-strummed through him. Like music he'd heard when he was younger and then forgot, the familiarity that was the melody of Olivia in motion was as bitter as it was sweet.

Watching her reminded Fitz of how many times he'd heard her song. But as Olivia continued pacing back and forth in a sweater he'd never seen, he was also forced to remember how long it had been since he'd been allowed to listen to it.

/

Olivia began firing questions rapid-fire at Cyrus who, to his credit, threw back answers just as quickly with florid dashes of eagerness coloring all his responses.

"How many people know of Fitz's current condition?"

"Tom. Hal. The Chief of surgery_"

"Name?"

"Dr. Lucas Green. Highly accomplished. He has been the capitol-based surgeon of incumbent presidents since Clinton's second term."

"Who else?"

"Two nurses," Cyrus hurried to add before she could ask, "A Sylvia Duran and one Megan Delaney _and_ an anesthesiologist, Dr. Harry Mesner. All three have also been a part of the team slated to service members of The White House for several presidential terms. Mesner has been with us since Bush Senior. Duran and Delaney since Bush Junior."

"Can we trust them?"

"Olivia, I just told you that all four members of Fitz's surgical team have been on call since_"

Olivia turned. Jaw clenched tight with determination, nostrils flaring, she said, "I don't _care_ how long they've been on call. That wasn't my question. My question was, during the height of a recession with the cost of college skyrocketing and family members losing jobs left and right, can we be certain that no member of this team will leak information about Fitz's condition to make a quick buck?"

Mellie scoffed, "You're stalling. There's absolutely no way to know the answer to that question with any sort of certainty. You don't have even the skeleton of a plan do you? I mean seriously_"

Olivia cut her off, "Where is Tom?"

"He's still stationed in the hallway, filtering any and all access to this wing." Cyrus said.

"Ok. Once we are done with this conversation, I need you to go outside and tell Tom to gather Fitz's surgical team. I don't care if they're asleep at home or at their grandmother's funeral. Make them come here. Once they're all gathered, Cy, I need you to make it very clear to them that information concerning Fitz's condition is a matter of national security. I need you to make them understand that should any member of the press catch wind of the fact that Fitz is awake and decide to release that information. That automatically puts him in danger. And consequently it puts this country in danger."

Olivia roughly brushed back the wisps of hair tickling her neck, seeming not to need to pause for breath, she continued, "I need you to leave them without a shadow of a doubt that should I hear this news anywhere before _I _have explicitly decided to release it, then I will consider the leak an act of treason on their parts. Let them know that I will not be interested in finding out who leaked what if they put Fitz's life in danger. And make sure they understand that should this come to pass, should they decide to put this country in danger by leaking sensitive information, I will have the full force and might of the US government behind me. And I will show no mercy."

Olivia abruptly stopped pacing. She stood still in the center of the room, her chest heaving with the energy pulsing through her. Fitz watched that rise and fall completely enthralled. Her rapid breaths caused her nipples to press hard against the silky promise that was the fabric of her negligee. He swallowed.

She had always been the more indifferent one. But now she stood there, practically shaking with her concern for him…Fitz didn't know if he was more surprised or turned on. As the red of her tongue flashed out to make yet another sweep across her bottom lip, he decided. He was so turned on. It seemed an angry and passionate Olivia would always have that effect on him. And now, he would forever have to work hard to ignore it.

Cyrus laughed, turning to Mellie he said, "How's that for the skeleton of a plan?"

"Great." Mellie said, "Wonderful. So she would threaten the team that brought him back with certain death if even a hint of_"

Olivia's hand slammed down hard on the iron frame of Fitz's bed, her whole body leaning forward, "Yes! I would!" She exclaimed, "To save your husband's life!"

Mellie held her piercing gaze until Olivia whipped around. Let Mellie stare at her back instead. Olivia wouldn't allow Fitz to see her lose control. She was _always_ so controlled around him. And she had to guess that that might be one of the traits he liked about her.

Although the way he lay leaning against his pillow, she wouldn't guess he liked anything about her anymore. He seemed so indifferent to her. In complete contrast to the way he was before: all fiery declarations of love accompanied by gestures designed to prove that love. But she had ruined it. So now he stayed silent as she tried to show him, with her words and her very presence in a room with a woman that hated her, that she was serious this time. She was staying this time, if only he would let her.

Sufficiently calmer, Olivia turned back around. She could tell by the smirk on her face that Mellie knew she had gotten under her skin. She promised herself that this would be the last time she'd allow that to happen. She wanted to walk over to her and say, "Enjoy it while you can. Because I'm coming for you. And this time, I'm coming to take it all."

Instead, out loud, Olivia said, "There is _nothing_ I wouldn't do to secure Fitz's safety. Not one single thing." She let the declaration hang for a minute in the tension filled air before continuing, "So_"

Mellie interjected smoothly, "That still doesn't take care of the little issue of getting Fitz back in the oval. You know, the _main_ reason, my husband and I," Now it was Mellie that paused to let a phrase and all its connotations sink in, "asked you to come here."

"Mellie," Fitz said, "I'm sure if you just let her finish, she'll get to it."

Even though there was none of the acerbic bite that used to color Fitz's tone whenever he addressed Mellie, Olivia imagined that his choice to speak up for her was a promising sign. At least she hoped it was.

"Olivia," Fitz prompted.

"Are you able to sit up on a couch or_"

Fitz chuckled, "I guess I look much weaker than I feel," When Olivia smiled, he continued, "Yes, I am able to sit up and with a little assistance from Dr. Green I was even able to walk…well, walk might be an overly optimistic definition of what I did, hobble is more fitting. I was able to hobble around the room. However, the doctor said it would take extensive physical therapy with a specialist to get back to the place I was before so it's not like I'll be running marathons or anything any time soon."

Cyrus waved a dismissive hand, "Who cares if you can't run. So long as you can talk without slurring and you can sit up straight, I mean, FDR was a veritable cripple and_"

"Nice, Cy." Fitz said.

"No he's right." Olivia rushed to add, "Not that you're a cripple or anything. But that…all Americans need, is to believe that you are still strong enough and capable enough to lead this country. In order to prove to them what I_what _we_ already know, you just need to be able to sit up straight on a piece of furniture that is not a bed and give a clear and confident interview." She smiled, "No marathons necessary."

Fitz laughed, "Good. I hate running."

"Yes, I know." Olivia said.

And for a moment things were as they used to be between them. When she had known all his little foibles and quirks and it had pleased him to share those hidden parts of himself with her.

Mellie cleared her throat, "So after we get Fitz in front of this interviewer, who ever that may_"

"Kimberly Mitchell."

"Fine. After we get Fitz in front of Kimberly Mitchell, how exactly are we going to_"

"After Fitz shows the world that he is ready to retake his mantle as President, he will…" Olivia turned to Fitz, "You will call for a public referendum. After all the American people did not choose Sally Langston. A couple scared cabinet members did. The American people chose you. And since this country is still a democratic one, through a referendum they will be allowed to decide if they want to remain with a cabinet elected president or if they want to return to a democratically selected one, whose only thought after waking up from a bullet-induced coma is to again serve the people who chose him to be their leader. And that is exactly how we will frame that choice."

"Genius." Cyrus said, "So we present the option as betraying a man, who took a bullet in service of his country, if they choose to remain with Sally Langston or rewarding that same man for his noble sacrifice by ousting her. It's just…genius. I mean when you frame the choice that way, she doesn't stand a chance." Cyrus finished, a sound like wonder infusing his voice.

"Exactly." Olivia said.

Fitz smiled. And Mellie, despite realizing that Olivia had just presented a plan that would ensure she got to reassume her role as first lady, looked like she had just swallowed a particularly sour lemon.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

Happy Christmas! I hope you enjoyed reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. And I hope you are all having a wonderful time opening presents from your loved ones and the ones you don't love so much but are willing to take gifts from anyways, albeit grudgingly. I'm talking to you Drunk Uncle. As for me? All I want for Christmas, besides January 10th arriving sooner rather than later, is for you to leave me your thoughts in the form of reviews _and_ for Olivia and Fitz to ride off into the sunset together…after a reasonable amount of angst of course :)

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Circus

When Olivia was a little girl, her parents had taken her to a circus. Both university professors, they were more likely to take her to a lecture than a Disney movie. So a trip to the circus had been especially out of character. Regardless of the lack of academic value, Olivia remembered feeling fascinated by the red-stripped vaulted tents and the sweet smell of buttery popcorn intermingled with the anticipation that hung in the air. As her parents took her from tent to tent, her fascination grew. Behind the flaps of one tent stood a lion tamer; his whip suspended high above his head. Inside another was a tightrope walker who defied gravity and fate as she made steady, and fearless progress from one end of the tent to the other.

There was a sense of inexorable energy in the activity of the circus. A frenetic motion of something always happening around the next corner and the next, but it wasn't that constant motion that Olivia loved. Rather it was the feeling that all of it, the movement and the furious chaos, was orchestrated by a magician who stood behind the curtains pulling all the strings. Because child though she was, Olivia knew that the brave tightrope walker, and the daring lion tamer could only exist within a tightly controlled environment in order for them to be alive to perform night after night.

Knowing that the magic of the circus had very human origins didn't spoil the show for Olivia. On the contrary, it made it better. This was a different type of magic she remembered thinking to herself. One that had a place in the world of the breathing and possible. And as she sat in the audience with her parents, Olivia thought of the magician who had created all this wonder for her enjoyment. She imagined him walking around the tents ensuring that the rope was tight enough and the lions firmly secured to the ground. She pictured the magician, with his white hat, throwing so many fates into the air before allowing them to descend with deliberate disarray into the places he had prepared for them. Olivia always credited that visit to the circus, and her childlike musings of the magician behind the curtain, for her desire to go into crisis management. Although, it had to be said, the path to OPA hadn't been a straight one.

After she had left the White House, she spent whole days consumed by thoughts of Fitz. Hours were exhausted as she thought of the way his body felt against hers, the way she felt as he curled himself around her. His large hands touching her everywhere as he held her tightly against himself and they both strained to become an unchangeable part of each other. Curled up on her couch, Olivia remembered the scent of his breath, the scent of _him_ in her bed, in her clothes, his words, all those pieces of him burrowing deep into her skin, in her hair, all her empty recesses filled completely by him.

Even a week away from Fitz, she was still paralyzed by thoughts of him. She lay motionless in bed remembering the addicting way he made her feel. The way being with him was like being consumed by him. Being burned and marked by the intensity of his love for her so that there was nothing within her that he hadn't claimed, no corner inside her that he hadn't made his own.

Eventually the memories became painful and every time she revisited them it hurt her more that she could only hold onto this fragment of him, this intangible memory of the man he was and the way he loved her and it wasn't enough. So when Abby had called her in tears, Olivia held onto the sound of Abby's breaking voice like the lifeline it was. After fixing Abby she decided, that regardless of being incapable of putting together her own shattered pieces, she could put on her white magician's hat and pull together all the broken shards of other people's lives. So she founded OPA. And the daily activity of fixing the lives of others had managed to keep thoughts of Fitz and the magical way he loved her at bay.

With that goal of forgetting in mind, Olivia drew more and more clients to her. And when they offered her their problems and asked that she fix them, she would walk around the edges of their lives making sure their ropes were tight enough and all their lions were firmly secured. Once she was satisfied that everyone stood in their proper place, Olivia would throw open the curtains and the show would begin. When it was good, when the pieces fell into the spaces she had compelled them to find, she was magic and her magic touched everything around her and made it beautiful. So that what seemed like chaos to the undiscerning eye was in actuality a finely tuned act with all the participants performing in the exact manner Olivia had willed them to.

/

As Kimberly Mitchell went through her voice exercises, her production assistant buzzed around Fitz's hospital room ensuring that all signifiers of the interview's location were hidden from view. The pole that held his IV bag was strategically placed behind a curtain, the line of the IV similarly hidden up the sleeve of his dark suit. His bed had been carted out with the help of an overly eager Cyrus and three robust couches had been placed in the center of the room in its stead. An abundance of flowers had been brought in from somewhere and vases of different color and heft were stationed, solemn soldiers, around him.

A makeup assistant had, with the use of copious amounts of concealer, covered up the bulk of the bruises around Fitz's temples. The purposefully dimmed lights in the room would work to disguise what the makeup could not. Mellie sat stiffly in the couch beside him, her hair perfectly coifed, her hands placed sedately in her lap. Cyrus, apparently dissatisfied with the production assistant's progress, was shuffling around the room shifting things and running into people. And hidden on the edges of all this blustering activity was Olivia. A whispered word here, a nudge there, she controlled it all.

She walked over to Fitz."How are you feeling?" She asked, leaning down towards him.

Fitz took deliberately steady breaths, clamping down on the desire to breathe her in like he usually did when she was near.

"Fine." He said, "This is not my first rodeo, you know?"

She laughed. Fitz could feel Mellie bristling beside him.

"Of course not," Olivia said, "I just wanted to give you a couple pointers even though you're an old pro."

At Fitz's answering smile, she continued.

"Make sure you maintain eye contact with Kimberly when you're answering her questions. Give a long beat immediately after mentioning the referendum for the first time, so that in that pause the American people are allowed to ruminate on how much you have sacrificed to be the leader they deserve. But when you are discussing the referendum after that initial introduction, make sure to keep your body relaxed and casual. Taking back your position as President is a right. Your right. You're not begging for the role. It's already yours. You are simply asking that they return to you what is your due and you need to be relaxed when you ask them to do this. You need to look every bit the president that you are and_"

"There's really no need to go on and on like this. I think he gets it." Mellie said.

Olivia nodded and made to move away. Before she could straighten up fully, Fitz grabbed her wrist. It was such a small thing. His large hand wrapped around hers, his fingers flat against the racing drum of her pulse. Such a tiny thing, but still…Olivia felt all the breath leave her body. And as it left her, she felt like she was tasting her first full exhale since she had entered the room and her body felt limp and easy with relief. It was like she had been in pain and hadn't realized it until he'd touched her and taken all her pain away. And she couldn't have pulled her arm from his grasp if she had wanted to. But she didn't want to.

"Thank you," Fitz said, his blue eyes piercing as he looked at her. "For doing this…all of this. Thank you." He said again.

Mellie cleared her throat and Fitz let Olivia's wrist fall from the warmth of his grasp so that it lay cold and lonely by her side once more.

"You're very welcome." She said.

She walked over to Kimberly to relay some last minute instructions. If Kimberly thought her outfit strange, she didn't mention it. Only choosing to nod in response to all of Olivia's quickly delivered directions.

"You're certain no one knows about the content of this evening special?" Olivia asked.

"I'm sure."

"Are you? How did you clear the request for air time with your network?"

"Honestly, Olivia, with the internet and Facebook and twitter, every story these days is being broken by amateur bloggers barely out of high school. All I had to say was 'sensitive and exclusive' and the network head was tripping over herself to throw at me as much air time as I wanted."

"And the bloggers?"

"Select bloggers have been forewarned to tune into NBC at 8:30PM sharp, just as you requested. So the second Fitz's face hits the airwaves, they'll take to twitter and everybody from Cincinnati to Timbuktu will know that he's awake and calling for a referendum to remove the current president."

"Good. Thank you."

"Thank _me_?" Kimberly said with a laugh, "Are you kidding me? This interview is going to be…do you know how rare it is these days for traditional media to break a story before the bloggers do? It's a media coup!" She chuckled, "It's also an actual coup. After tonight there's no way President Langston maintains her position in The White House. And _I_ get to break the story first. Because of you! Thank me? Thank you._"_

Olivia smiled before walking over to the left hand corner of the room to make sure she was outside of the camera's focus. Shortly after, Kimberly took her seat across from a smiling Fitz and Mellie. And Cyrus, who also stood behind the camera, waited with bated breath for the show to begin.

/

Mere seconds after the interview had began, Olivia's blackberry was inundated with text messages. Skipping the desperate requests for clarification and information, she went onto Google News. She smiled as she saw all the quickly populating headlines announcing Fitz's revival. When he mentioned the referendum on air for the first time, phone calls quickly joined the barrage of text messages on her phone. Olivia's smile grew wider. As her phone vibrated and rang in her pocket, she could almost smell the buttery popcorn. She could almost see the red-stripped tents. But it wasn't until the interview wrapped and Tom announced the arrival of President Sally Langston that Olivia knew that the circus had come to town.

"Would you like to see her, sir?" Tom asked.

Olivia had been expecting Sally so it didn't surprise her that she should arrive right on time. Everything was proceeding beautifully and according to schedule.

She caught Fitz's eye and nodded once.

"Let her in." He said.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

I hope you enjoyed this chapter. And I hope you're still with me. We must hold onto one another. For support and things. The absence left by Scandal's hiatus is too awful to bear alone. Yesterday, suffering from Olitz withdrawal, I watched video after video on JustStandHere's (another SOFIC) wonderful YouTube channel and it helped. I hope in the same way my words help calm your Olitz cravings :) If they do, won't you tell me so? Leave me your reviews and I will follow with faster updates.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8: Cage Match

In the spring semester of his Junior year at Yale, Fitz had been tapped to become a member of the highly exclusive Skulls and Bones secret society. It hadn't come as a surprise. His father had been a member, and his grandfather before him and on and on since the beginnings of time. The illustrious Grants were Yale men and Bonesmen to boot. That's the way it was and that's the way it would always be. So as Fitz had stood in the grass of Branford College Court waiting for one of the Senior society members, in their pins and blue suit, to tap him, he had felt more dread than excitement. And when he felt that firm nudge on his shoulder, he felt his whole life up to that moment was written in that simple gesture.

He had attended Andover, and then Yale. At the university, he would be a bonesman. Fine. At 20 years of age, Fitz had already made peace with the predetermined course of his life. He had come to terms with the fact that his father and his grandfather before him had ordained every detail in his life to date. And everything they had mapped out had come to pass as they meant it to. Fine. What bothered him, what was decidedly _not_ fine as the senior tapped his shoulder, was that the touch had prophetic qualities too.

He would be governor like his father and grandfather before him, and then together, the joint might of the unshakeable Grants would propel him with steady, unyielding force towards the one office that had, as of yet, eluded them all. The greatest and most illustrious office in the land, and Fitz would have absolutely no say in the matter.

So as he followed that blue suited senior, weaving through the throngs of the unchosen Yalemen who hadn't made the cut and would never wear the pin of skull and bone, Fitz made a decision. If his entire life was to be mapped out for him, the predestined roads he'd be forced to travel forming steel shackles around his feet, then he would take his pleasure along any byway he could find.

So when during the pledging process the senior society members had arranged cage matches among the pledges, a sort of homage to fight club and the secret things men did in the dark out of boredom and bloodlust, Fitz had joined in with gusto.

When the school found out what they were really doing in The Tomb, his father was called with his grandfather in tow along with the other society member's equally illustrious brethren. Fitz hadn't cared. Watching the pledges slug each other, taking hits himself, he had felt alive. He had felt in control. And he had felt a part of something.

For as they hit and kicked each other, buried deep in bowels of The Tomb, none of the members participating in the fights were really fighting against each other. No. They were fighting against futures they had no hand in choosing. They were delivering blows against an establishment they did not create. And in that pounding, in that rushing, fervent, irreverent struggling, they were, all of them, saying to their fathers and their grandfathers too that they had the right to live the lives they wanted. The ones they had always wanted. A life of their own making.

Watching Sally rush into the room, her red face matching her hair and matching the angry tint of Cyrus' face as well, Fitz couldn't help but think of those old cage matches at Yale, where the opponents fought and struggled to define themselves according to no body else's terms but their own.

/

Olivia was glad that the press crew had gone home and that only Mellie, Cyrus, Fitz and herself remained in the room. Because one look at Sally's outraged face, and she knew that Madam President would waste no time on pleasantries or artifice.

"A referendum? Have you lost your damn mind?"

Cyrus chuckled, "Hmm, refresh my memory. Did Moses say that before he parted the red sea, or did Jesus, right before he turned water to wine."

Sally visibly bristled, "I am sick of getting screwed over by this administration Cyrus Beene_"

"Paul on the road to Damascus, that must have been what he meant to say when he saw the burning bush, he must have said Jesus, I am sick of getting_"

"Don't you try and shame me with theology Cyrus! Your administration has," She paused, "What am I saying, you're not even part of this admin_"

"For now!" Cyrus growled, crossing the room so that he stood looming over Sally's more petite frame. "We are not a part of this administration for now. Given the number of jubilated messages on my phone however, I suggest you start saying your goodbyes to that office. It won't be yours for much longer."

"Give me break!" Sally said pointing at Fitz who sat content and amused to watch the battle taking place before him, "You really think you can slap some makeup on him and make the American people think that a potentially _brain damaged_ invalid is capable of running this country?"

"Well, we slapped some makeup on you, and people seem quite content to believe that you're a Christian woman and not a unscrupulous political animal conveniently wielding your religion when it suits you. It's a wonder what a little lipstick can do."

Sally scoffed, "You know what they say, put a little lipstick on a pig and it is still a pig_"

"Exactly the argument that I was_"

Sally forged on, "The American people will _not _be fooled by media-generated smoke and mirrors, I don't care how much_"

"Then why are you here!" Fitz asked, speaking for the first time since she entered the room.

His parents may have pushed him to aspire to this particular position. But now that Sally sought to take it away from him without even entering the ring to fight for it honorably, he was angry.

"If you are so certain that the American people would chose you, over me, a…what did you call me? Potentially brain-damaged invalid, then why are you in my hospital room?"

Sally sputtered, "Because I…I_"

"Because you know you're living on borrowed time. More specifically on _my_ time. But I'm awake now as you can see. And I promise you, my thinking faculties are very much intact. So, if you deserve this office as much as you seem to think you do, you will have to fight me for it. And let the American people decide who the victor is."

As Fitz spoke, it seemed that all the pallor of a man bedridden for a month was stripped away from him. And it wasn't the makeup. It wasn't the IV line hidden up his sleeve, or the flowers stationed around the room that prompted the transformation. It was his passion. His vitality. It was the reemergence of a man deciding to fight for a life of his own making. Clearly outmatched, Sally Langston turned and exited the ring as violently as she had entered it.

/

Mellie placed her hand on Fitz's arm, still pulsing with residual energy from his battle with Sally.

"Darling, you were phenomenal." She said, her chest heaving with excitement.

Olivia looked away. She didn't want to see Fitz smiling at Mellie the way he used to smile at her, and suddenly she felt she'd rather be anywhere but in this room with all his happiness that had nothing to do with her. So, eyes trained on her feet, she missed that it was her that Fitz stared at as he thanked Mellie.

His eyes remained on her still as he asked, "So what happens now? How do we play this?"

She looked up, feeling a rush of pleasure flow through her as she found his blue eyes resting on her face, and his hand limp in Mellie's grasp.

"Well, to a certain extent, Sally _is_ right. It wouldn't do for you to have the referendum results filter in while you're still in the hospital. It was fine and necessary for tonight. But going forward, we need to project an image of strength and vitality. A hospital room is not conducive to that image."

"It's fine." Cyrus said, "They can move back to their town house in Georgetown."

"Yes," Mellie said, the pout she wore speaking to her distaste in agreeing to a plan posited by Olivia, "We still own it. So it shouldn't be too difficult to make it inhabitable again."

"Phenomenal," Cyrus said rubbing his hands together like an old-school villain from the silent film era, "That will be our base of attack."

Fitz laughed, "Take it down a notch Cy, we're not plotting to kill her_"

"I guess we can't get _everything_ we want." Cyrus said with a smile.

The statement was so outrageous that they all smiled with him.

"No," Olivia said, still chuckling, "I don't think it's quite necessary to kill her." She shook her head, "Over the next couple days I'll coordinate statements of support for Fitz's renewed candidacy from world leaders_"

Cyrus began rattling off names, "Netanyahu, Cameron, Gillarde, Hollande_"

"Yes," Olivia said, "Especially France's Hollande. He stands to gain the most from a more moderate republican president than a conservative_"

"Nut-job." Mellie added.

"Yes," Cyrus said, "As much as it pains me to work with such a radical communist_"

"Cy," Fitz said laughing, "Hollande is hardly a communist."

"Fine, a socialist nut-job, then," Cyrus said, nodding at Mellie, "Livy, you're right, he's the one that stands the most to gain from Fitz resuming his post. So we..."

"We ask him to give the longest statement of support. The more major world leaders that come out full force behind Fitz, the more Sally looks like a minor league_"

"Interim." Mellie added.

"Yes, interim president and_"

"And once they do, we call for a referendum and it's only a matter of time till we're back in the White House." Mellie said with glee, squeezing Fitz's arm again.

"Precisely." Olivia said, turning away once more.

"Precisely," Fitz repeated, his eyes still trained fast on all the downward sloping angles of Olivia's face.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

First of all, I just want to thank all the wonderful twitter people (tweeters? I'm technologically an 80 year old woman, so I don't know all the appropriate terminology) that made my NYE so memorable ( HighnessJill, Nikki528, juliaontv, poeticmillie83, and babycakebriauna). Your words of encouragement mean so much to me, I can't stress that enough, so thank you. My twitter handle is Elxie3. I'm not that good at it, TBH, but will try to get better :)

That being said, I hope you enjoy reading this chapter. As always your reviews will add fuel to my Olitz-shipper soul. Isn't that what it says in verse 10 of 1st Corinthians 13? Right after the part that says: Love is patient, love is kind, love is Fitz touching Olivia even when she asks him not to. Hah! I'm probably going to hell for that one. Do you think they'll screen episodes of Scandal for me if I ask real nice?

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	9. Chapter 9

Remember Me and You

It was 9:30AM and she was supposed to reconvene with Fitz in his new (hopefully temporary) Georgetown office to watch the referendum results filter in. Yet there she stood in her bedroom, hesitating. She was staring hard at her reflection in the mirror. _It's just a dress_. _It's not even a very sexy dress_. _He won't care. We're done. _Olivia pursed her lips and watched her reflection do the same. It was a simple dress. She smoothed her hands down the fabric of it. Modest even. Especially when compared to some of the outfits she had seen on the young girls who swarmed the hill like bees round a hive. It was white and knee-length with a slight v-neckline. _Perfectly innocuous._ She turned to examine herself in profile. So what if it touched and held every single curve in her body. Mere coincidence.

Olivia turned away from the mirror in disgust. She began pacing around her bedroom. It was fine to lie to everyone around her but lying to herself; that was taking things too far. Wasn't it better to call a spade a seduction attempt and admit to herself that she wanted to improve upon the last image that Fitz had of her in those ill-fitting grey slacks and that lint-ridden sweater. The image that made it easy for him to cut her loose as she had been asking him to. She tried to stop her mind from landing upon the desperate hope that was floating around her head seeking a crack to slip in through. The one that said: Maybe, maybe, maybe.

/

Two years ago on the campaign trail, Olivia came down to breakfast wearing the dress. She hadn't thought much of it. It was a last minute purchase during a last minute stop at an Ann Taylor. Nothing special. Just another white dress. Fitz was sitting next to Cyrus at a small table in the corner of the dining room. Mellie was still upstairs in bed recovering from the past night's rigorous round of interviews. In which she, alongside an equally convincing Fitz, had pretended that the both of them were participants in the greatest marriage ever experienced by man and wife.

In the dark of the night, it had hurt to watch them together, playing off of each other with such ease. In the stark light of day, it still hurt. Even knowing that Fitz was doing only what he must and what she had told him to, it hurt. The sight of them: hands clasped, dark heads of hair leaning together, his eyes on Mellie's lips then her eyes in quick succession, his slow smile, her breathless laugh—snapshots. And the pictures had grown neon bright and unbearable and they chased any specter of rest from her bed so that upon entering the dining room that morning she was exhausted and more than a little sad.

Cyrus motioned her over and seeing no other recourse she crossed the room and sat down next to him and across from Fitz whose eyes she refused to meet. It was petty, childish, and yet, she couldn't bring herself to look at him. She was afraid that if she did, she would see all those images that had chased her through the night: his hand on the small of Mellie's back, hers on his thigh, his foot brushing hers, an indulgent smile—

No. Instead she preferred to concentrate on the yellow mass of eggs that Cyrus was systematically piling on her plate. Even though the tension was palpable and she could feel Fitz's eyes on her like a caress. She wouldn't look up.

"Good morning Olivia."

And his voice was like honey and whisky coiled around one another and dripping, molten, over hot stones.

"Morning." She replied with eyes still glued to her growing mountain of eggs.

She strove for lightness. "Cy, I know you want me to be alert this morning but you should know that I'll be completely comatose if you put any more eggs on my plate."

Cyrus stopped his inspired ladling, "Sorry, I'm a little distracted. How long does it take to get polling results? You would think in this age of internet and the Facebookers and the Twits we would be able to find out a lot sooner how we're faring."

Olivia smiled, "That's not how that goes."

"What?"

"People on Twitter are not referred to as Twits and I don't think anyone has said the term "Facebookers" since...ever."

"Who cares what those idiots are called," Cyrus said, throwing down his fork.

He leaned towards Fitz, "How do you think the interview with Mellie affected our standings? I thought it went well." He said nodding as if each additional nod would be counted as a vote towards Fitz's victory.

He continued, "There was just enough touching between the two of you to satisfy the rabid masses but nothing trashy. I thought your love was exceedingly evident. Don't you think so Olivia?"

The smile fell off her face. "I thought it was...great. Really, really_"

Cyrus rose from his seat abruptly. "Hey! Stop. Wait."

An intern that had been rushing across the dining room stopped short looking for the entire world like a deer caught in headlights.

"S-Sir? I-I mean...chief, um, governor? I-I mean, I'm sorry, I'm sorry." The young intern stopped saying anything intelligible, instead he clasped his hands together and began mumbling towards the direction of his shoes.

"Where do we get these interns from? It is _not_ enough to have a Senator for a Father and a Brooks Brothers suit. We have _got_ to get better people." Cyrus muttered, "I'm going to ask him if the poll results have come out yet. That is if he doesn't spontaneously combust first."

He rose and began striding towards the trembling intern leaving Olivia and Fitz alone.

"Why won't you look at me?"

Olivia tried to force her eyes from her plate. But she couldn't. She could still see those snapshots. The two of them together like they belonged to each other and maybe they did.

"Livy."

It was a broken whisper. His leg nudged hers. Then his hand, he moved it under the table and placed it flush on her thigh. She started and pushed his hand off of her.

"I _am_ looking at you." She said lifting her eyes to his face before looking away again. She struggled to keep her voice light and casual as she pushed back her chair and got up, "I actually have to go but I'll see you on the bus."

"Liv."

But she was already walking away from him. It was only when she had shut the door of the dining room behind her that her measured steps quickened so that she was practically running by the time she burst into the one stall bathroom at the end of the hall. Walking over to the sink, Olivia turned on the tap and let the cold water run over her wrists in the hopes that it would calm her nerves. She heard the door open before she saw, reflected in the mirror, Fitz walk inside and turn the lock behind him.

He walked towards her like a panther stalking its prey. His eyes intent. His lips pressed together in a determined line. She swallowed, backing up against the sink, her breaths coming out of her in labored spurts. She tried to brush by him but as her hand wrapped around the doorknob, both of his pressed down on the door so that he was surrounding her entirely. His breath was hot on her neck, in her ear, his chest pressed firmly to her back. He wrapped his hand around hers, pulling it from the doorknob, he pressed it against the door, holding her captive.

"What are you doing?"He said. His lips were against her temple and she felt each word leave him, burning her like a brand.

"Let go of me." She whispered.

"No."

"We can't do this here. Please."

"So we _are_ still doing this."

"No."

"No?"

He moved impossibly closer to her, his body forming a cage around hers.

"I don't want to do this anymore. I_"

She stopped short as he brushed his hand up her leg, leaving a trail of fire everywhere he touched. He moved his hand under the white dress and slipped it between her thighs; cupping her.

His voice like steel, he said, "I don't believe you."

"Fitz," Her voice caught as his hand pushed aside her panties and one long finger slipped inside her.

"I love hearing you say my name like that." His voice was husky and rough, "I'm going to make you scream it."

He turned her around. Before she could speak, before she could think, he covered her mouth with his. He kissed her, rough and hot and desperate. He was consuming her. He slipped his tongue into her mouth. She whimpered, holding on to his shirt, she pulled him closer. He lifted her up and balanced her against the door as he kissed her neck, her chest, her breasts.

"You don't get to tell me you don't want this." His voice was sandpaper-hoarse. "Not when you're wearing this fucking dress. What are you trying to do to me?" His blue eyes were piercing into hers, trapping her.

He kissed her again before she could answer. Slanting his mouth over hers, he deepened the kiss. His mouth still fused to hers, Fitz backed away just enough so he could reach under her dress and pull off her panties.

"You don't get to tell me you don't want me." He said sliding one finger and then a second into her, "Not when I want you all the fucking time. And I think about you constantly. And I can't stop."

Olivia threw her head back against the door, biting her lip, she moaned.

"Fitz. Please."

He wrapped his hand around her hair, and pulled hard. The skin of her neck was bare and exposed to his hungry gaze. He attached his mouth to the sensitive spot beneath her ear and sucked.

She groaned, "Please. Please. Please."

"Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

He pulled his fingers, slick, from her. Releasing himself, in one thrust, he plunged deep into her. She drew in sharp breath.

"Tell me you want this." He said as he began driving into her.

"I want this."

"Say it again." He bit out.

"I want this. I want this, oh God, Fitz." Wrapping her fingers in the hair along his nape, she pulled him closer and kissed him. She tightened their embrace, her limbs clinging to his as he pounded into her.

"I love you," He groaned, "I love you so much."

He slipped a hand between them and with his fingers he strummed her clit. She cried out, and squeezed her eyes shut.

He tightened his grip around her hair, "No. Look at me. I want to watch you fall apart."

She opened her brown eyes and stared into his as she shuddered and came. With the feel of Olivia pulsing around him, Fitz drove into her one last time, heat like electric running through his veins, it shook him. He called out her name as he gladly lost himself in her.

They held on to one another for a moment, their breaths intermingling, their skin clammy and slick where it bound them together. He kissed her one more time before setting her down.

"I'm sorry if I was a little rough, I_"

"I liked it," She said with a rueful smile, "I always like it when it's with you."

"Why do you look so sad when you say that."

She shook her head and tried to pull away. But he wouldn't let her.

"What's wrong? Why were you ignoring me? What did I do?"

"I wasn't."

"Livy."

"I hate seeing you with her." She said in a small voice. "Last night was...painful. Watching the two of you together. Watching you touch her."

"I'd rather be touching you." He said, gripping her arms, "You must know that. You must know, every time I'm with her I_"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore." She said shaking her head. She placed her hands up forming a barrier between them.

"Livy, I know this is hard. I know. Just, please don't push me away." His eyes were glossy, "I can't, I can't _take_ it."

Watching him there in front of her, eyes glittering like blue sapphires with tears yet unshed—It was the first time Olivia realized that he meant it when he told her that he loved her. Those words that she had heard from others, they meant something coming from him. He placed his hand on her face, cupping her cheek. So she turned her face towards it and kissed the center of his palm.

"Ok." She said, "I'll try."

He pulled her into his arms. She buried her face into his chest and took her first full breath of the morning.

/

As Olivia stared at herself in the mirror, she remembered the way he had looked at her in this dress. How his breath had quickened, his eyes darkening. _Maybe_. Maybe he would remember too. Maybe she could remind him. Maybe if he saw her, he'd remember how he had once looked at her. Maybe he'd look at her that way again as if he were a man dying of thirst and her body, flesh and bone, was composed of so much cool water. _Maybe. _The word was a seal. Maybe it had the power to bind the two of them together the way they were bound to one another once before. Olivia left her apartment.

* * *

Dear Gladiators,

It's been a while. Mea culpa. I used to be Catholic. I say used to be because now my only religion is Olitz for obvious reasons: where was #TreeGate in 1st Corinthians I ask you? But in my misguided past, I was a catholic so as penance for my extended absence, I offer some good old-fashioned smut ;) Till next time.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10: A Talented Woman

They sat there: Fitz, Mellie and Cyrus in front of the large flatscreen TV. It was blank and dark and empty. None of them willing to turn it on until the designated time: Five O' Clock. Five O' Clock and they would flip the switch. Five O' Clock and the referendum results would no longer be some phantom object, wispy in their intangibility. They would be real and with the power to transform their lives. Five O' Clock and she would_

Fitz stared at the clock for the fourth time in half as many minutes. He cleared his throat and then he loosened his tie as he tried to avoid Cyrus' knowing gaze. He was fidgeting. He was aware that he was fidgeting and aware that Cyrus was fully cognizant of the reason why but he refused to acknowledge it. Preferring instead to continue staring at the clock and fidgeting as the both of them allowed the silence to conceal all the words that weren't being said: He was waiting for her, again. Excited to see her, again. Nervous because of her, ag_

"There's no need to be nervous, Fitz. Every journalist in this city is positive that you're going to come out on top after this referendum. And the ones that aren't positive should quit their day jobs and flee the district with their tail between their legs." Cyrus scoffed, "Just like Sally is going to have to flee. Oh, what I would do for a front row seat. She knows she's a dead woman walking but how much I would love to watch her slowly crumble when you're announced the winner."

"He's right Fitz."

Mellie was glowing. She had been glowing as the newscasts, from Netanyahu, Gillard—world leaders the globe over, rolled in. In all of them, declarations, so that there was no doubt, that Fitz, and no one else, was the rightful leader. Expressions of gratitude for his improved health, statements expounding upon their excitement to govern alongside him once more, pledges of their allegiance. All of it weaved together like sugar spun to cotton candy by her. And where _was_ she? And what time was it? And when would she get here? Fitz's eyes flicked to the clock once more.

Mellie seeing him look, placed a cool hand on his arm, "Don't worry darling." She said with a smile. It seemed she too would pretend to be ignorant of the source of his nerves. His excitement. "I know that it doesn't do to be overly confident but the truth is Sally is probably packing her bags as we speak. She doesn't stand chance."

Fitz acknowledged her with a slight nod. His body was craning forward, his eyes fixed intermittently on the clock, then the door, the clock, then the door as the time tick, tick, TICKED on by.

Mellie spoke louder, "In fact, if _I_ were Sally, I would just throw in the towel now. She doesn't stand a chance. And I've always said that a woman, a talented woman, should always know when she's outmatched. Wouldn't you say Fitz?"

The clock struck five. The door was eased open, and behind it stood Olivia in a simple white dress.

/

Olivia stood just inside the threshold of the door, waiting. She saw. Fitz holding himself perfectly still. That muscle in his jaw. How it pulsed. It was beautiful. She knew that look. He remembered. And it wasn't right. Not with Mellie sitting right beside him, her mouth small and sad, her eyes. It was wrong. In a million ways it was wrong and Olivia would never be right loving him as she did. But she _did_ love him. And something inside her relaxed and unfurled at the vision of how tightly Fitz wound himself. How hard he was trying. How he held himself back. He looked up.

His eyes raking over her body taking in all the places that had once belonged to him that he could no longer touch. She held her breath. His eyes were stormy and dark as he looked at her. Then he met her eyes and she could tell that he was remembering. She could feel the memory hurled from where he sat on the couch to where she stood with her back pressed against the door. He was angry. She didn't care. Maybe it would take him being angry for him to realize that they, the both of them, could only be happy when they were together.

"Well," Mellie said, rising, her hands placed prominently on her protruding belly, "You're not just going to stand there are you Olivia? I mean I know that you're supposed to be talented but surely your talents don't include being able to see into the future."

Mellie cocked her head to side. Her mouth was curled into a snarl but her voice remained feather-light and soft, "Or do they? What do you think Fitz?" She said turning to him, "You're much better acquainted with Olivia's talents than anybody else in the room."

Cyrus rolled his eyes. "What did I do to deserve this? Did I eat children in a past life? Did I trip the blind and rob the poor? Is that why I'm saddled with the three of you. This is_" Cyrus took a deep breath, shoring up his patience, "Mellie, you are pregnant. Heavily pregnant. All this…_excitement_ can't be good for the baby. Sit down."

Mellie sat, her red lips drawn together in a pout.

"Olivia, Mellie's right, you're _not _clairvoyant and we're actually going to have to turn on the television to find out if Fitz is president or not."

"I never said I was_"

"Just sit _down_, please."

Olivia crossed to the single-seater chair and sat. Fitz's eyes tracked her, the dress molding and holding every curve, as she walked across the room.

Cyrus smiled at all of them, "Now, that wasn't so hard was it?" He reached for the remote, "No need to trouble yourselves. I will turn on the television, gladly."

He pressed the button and the television roared to life.

/

They had settled on ABC. The anchors: Kimberly Mitchell and Michael Danner stood in front of a screen that had all fifty of the American States projected onto it. They discussed the results as the referendum figures filtered in:

"Well, Michael, it seems almost unanimous in New York as well."

"Yes, it would seem that the good people of the big apple are happy to say goodbye to acting president Sally Langston and welcome in their old one."

"Well, I wouldn't call him old, Michael." Kimberly said with a cheeky grin.

He laughed, "No, he's a fighter alright. I must say, Kimberly, and I don't know if you'll agree, but New York is the 23rd state to request that the president be reinstated. This referendum is starting to feel like a formality."

"That it certainly is. Especially after all the statements from leaders across the world extending their support for the resumption of his candidacy. And not to announce anything prematurely but it _is_ starting to seem like a sure thing that the president will shortly be back where he was before the awful incident."

"And what an awful incident it was. I think that_ that's_ really the key issue here."

"What do you mean Michael?"

"I mean regardless of your politics, red or blue, conservative or moderate, there is a real and might I say accurate reluctance that people have to kick a-a- and I don't think I'm wrong in calling him this, a _hero_ when he's down."

"You're absolutely correct, Michael. " Kimberly leaned forward as the camera zoomed in on her face, "I mean, here is a man who took a bullet in service of his country, of his people, who fought his way back, and you know I say all this taking very seriously my duty as a member of the press to remain impartial but_"

"No. I absolutely agree with you, Kimberly. I think that politics aside, partisanship aside, at a certain point, it _does_ become an issue of human decency. How do we, as a country, as a people, turn away a man that has fought, and I don't think I'm being sensational when I say this, _fought_ his way back from the dark abyss so that he can continue on in his duty."

"That's it exactly isn't it Michael? It's not about power or what side of the divide you fall on. It's about this wonderful country, this _resilient_ country, it's about absolute patriotism about love and duty for this country trumping everything even_"

"One second, Kimberly, I don't mean to interrupt you, but I'm getting something on my…"

Michael pressed his hand to his earpiece. His face went from confused to shocked and then it was blank and impartial once more.

"It seems," He said, "I am getting a report just now that the acting President, Sally Langston, has conceded the office to Fitzger-now _President_ Fitzgerald Grant and will be…" He paused listening into his earpiece once more, "Will be holding a press conference officially announcing this in…in just 3 hours."

Cyrus jumped up from his seat and began pumping his arms and stamping his feet in some interpretation of a victory dance. Mellie's smile was wide and bright and ecstatic.

The two anchors continued unabated:

"…situation where she felt she _had_ to concede her position or face certain loss. The current results and the projected numbers certainly didn't make a continued presidency a plausible scenario."

"Now, now, Kimberly, I think that might be a little harsh. We have to acknowledge that she _was _acting in service of her country and that is a commendable thing."

"I agree and I commended her. Initially the entire country commended her when she stepped up to the plate immediately but when it was announced that he was awake, I think I speak for a lot people when I say that there was a sense of waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"You mean waiting for her to return control to him in a_"

"Yes, in a timely manner, and well, when _that_ didn't happen. There are some that said it was_"

Cyrus turned the TV off. His eyes were wide and shining, as he turned to them. He was a man transformed.

"She's holding a press conference in three_" He looked around the room as though possessed, "I've got to get down there. I have to watch her _give _it back in person. HAH!"

The sound was a loud bark. It cracked through the room.

Cyrus jumped to his feet, "The three of you will be alright here? Olivia, you'll_"

"I'm on it," Olivia said, her phone already pressed to her ear, "I'll release a statement to the press that Fitz has accepted Sally's concession and we'll hold a brief press conference tomorrow so that he can confer the information himself."

"Good. Good. Good. Good." Cyrus said as he hustled towards the door, almost running, and exited the room.

Mellie grabbed on to Fitz's hand, "Darling. This is the best news. The best!"

"I would have thought that would have been the announcement that I had come out of my coma," Fitz responded.

Mellie patted his hand as though he was an unruly child, "Well, of course it was. _That _was great news. But this." She looked at him. Now _she_ was the child. Getting her way. Bending her parents to her will. "We can move back to the White House. You'll be, you _are _President again. And I'm…First Lady."

Mellie bit her lip, her eyes watering. She leaned in and kissed Fitz flush on the mouth. He stiffened for a moment before stilling himself and allowing her to kiss him. She pulled back, beaming. And Olivia felt more than stupid in her white dress. Stupid and small. Because it was Mellie that had worn a white dress that actually mattered. The one that meant something. The one that said: it's you and me forever. And what did hers say? Once we made love in a bathroom and it hurt so good. And I thought: if this is pain, I never want it to stop.

Looking at Olivia's face, small and closed off, Mellie smirked, "Fitz, let's go pack our bags."

"I'm just going to stay for a while." A slight furrow between Mellie's brow. Fitz continued, "You know, take it all in."

"Ok." She said through a tight and determined smile, "I'll just pack for the both of us."

Mellie leveled a disgusted gaze at Olivia, "I guess we have you to thank for this, Olivia. Your...talents. Fitz seems a little overwhelmed by the results of the referendum. Maybe you can put some of those baser talents to work in service of him."

"Mellie!" Fitz growled.

"What!" She shot back. But just as quickly as the veil was allowed to slip, Mellie let it rise once more, obscuring her true feelings with the smile she pasted on her face.

"As far along in my pregnancy as I am, no doubt packing will take much longer than it usually does so I'd better get to it."

After one last slow stroke of her stomach, Mellie left the room and the screaming silence that lingered in her wake reigned supreme.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

I hope you are still willing to ride the Angst Ship heading full speed ahead to Angstville with Olitz at the helm. You are, aren't you? Say you won't abandon me now. I couldn't stomach it. Not after watching Fitz's head fall into Mellie's lap. These are dark times. We must stick together. Leave me love in the form of your reviews and I'll know that I can count on you if on nothing else.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11: The Other Woman

Mellie's voice still rang in the silence. Her words. This was what he had made Olivia. Before the bullet penetrated the walls she had built up to protect herself. Before his long sleep and her sleepless nights worrying over him, this person that sat still and subdued on the couch was what he had been making her all along.

_Where can this possibly go? _She had said as they sat across from each other in that empty restaurant, the white of the tablecloth stretching like so many impossible miles between them. He had been sure then. Even as he had agreed to cut their ties forever he had been sure. Love like a fire blazing glory in the night. That was what they had. Neither wind nor bitter ash, water nor acts of god—nothing could extinguish the fire they lit inside one another. But harsh words—it seemed those had more power than all the rest. _Where can this possibly go?_ She had said, and he had been angry with her. Had stayed angry with her for being incapable of seeing how their love could transcend everything, how it raised them, made them better, how it changed them, made them invincible.

But unmoving, struck-still on the couch, Olivia seemed anything but invincible. Her brown eyes overly wide, her teeth cutting sharp into her bottom lip, her hands clasped tight together on her lap. How she held herself. How carefully she held herself. She was hurting and Fitz had been wrong. This, all along, this broken person was what he had been making her. And always, when Olivia pulled away, this broken person incapable of defending herself and feeling unjustified whenever she tried, was what she was pulling away from. This was what he had opened her up to. Harsh words, cruel glances, disgust—all these things he had cultivated like poison ivy in a garden. Had he expected her to accept gladly when he gathered all that poison up and presented it to her in offering? And was that all he had ever had to offer her?

"I'm sorry."

"What for? You should be celebrating I think."

"You know why."

"I don't."

"Mellie, she had no right to speak to you that way."

"I think that's the problem. Because she has every right, doesn't she? No one would blame her. She's blameless. And I'm_" She stopped, unable to continue.

Fitz got up and crossed to her. Kneeling down in front of her. He held one of her hands in his own.

"You're perfect."

She looked up. Brown eyes met blue.

There was a lump in his throat but he forced himself to continue, "You don't deserve anything that she…any of it." He said squeezing down hard on her hand. "And I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize for her."

"No. That's not, I mean I do but…I was angry with you."

"Yes, I know."

"I was angry and jealous_"

"Fitz_"

"No." He moved closer to her. Leaning his forehead against hers. Breathing her in. "Please. Let me, I need to say this."

She nodded.

"You asked me to let you go."

"Yes." It was barely a breath. He felt it warm on his face and he wanted her. He always wanted her. Especially now with her face so close, and her lips, they were soft, slightly moist from where her tongue had_

He closed his eyes for a minute. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to concentrate.

"I was angry with you. But I shouldn't have been because you were right. I don't, I can't," He let out a breath, "Wanting you. Loving you. It's not enough. I don't have enough to offer you."

He was so tight. So coiled. His left hand was grasping hers. And was he aware of how hard he was holding on to her? His other arm curled around her waist. And was he aware that he was keeping her there? That every time she exhaled, he moved closer, inhaling. And was he aware that their lips were a whisper away, a breath. She could see his pulse thrumming in the hollow of his throat. She could feel it. That tension. That strain. That feeling like there was a promise living in the air that hung between them and all she had to do was touch him and everything she had ever wanted would be granted to her.

She curled her hand around his face. He turned his face towards her palm, closing his eyes. "What if I wanted anything you had to offer?"

Though his eyes were closed and everything was dark. He could still see her there. Alone on the single-seater couch as Mellie sat next to him, her hand in his, and talked about Olivia's talents. He could see her. The way she had shrunk down, grown smaller, and said nothing. And beside that image of Olivia wilting on the couch was the first one he ever had of her. With her head up, her shoulders thrown back like some sort of conquering warrior from the time of Amazons. The way she had strode towards him, challenging him with every step closer, every word uttered, daring him to contradict her. Daring him to try. She had stood before him proud and unashamed. And he had been transfixed. The other woman: the one that had sat silent on the couch, the one that felt she had no rights in comparison to Mellie because Mellie had the sham title of wife to match their sham marriage. That was the woman that all his love had transformed her to and he hated himself for it.

He opened his eyes. "I can't." He said.

She removed her hand from his cheek and put her head in her hands.

"Baby, please don't_"

"Stop." She placed her hands back in her lap. Her face was strained and tight but there were no tears. She looked away from him, collecting herself.

"You don't love me anymore." She said.

And the way she said it. Like a statement of fact. Like something irreversible, undeniable. As if he could ever stop. As if he had ever had a choice in the matter. Not even when he had tried to fire her that first day had he had a choice. Not when he was staring down at her in the hallway: at her mouth, her body trapped in all that gray, picturing all the ways he would strip the color from her revealing the warm, soft brown beneath if he could. Not when he had asked her to rejoin the campaign, telling himself he was rehiring her because Cyrus had told him to, all the while falling in love with her as he asked. He hadn't had a choice then. And he didn't have one now.

"There isn't enough. I don't have enough to offer you. I never did. It was…_I _was selfish. And I'm sorry. You deserve better."

All his words were fragmented and given sporadically as if each was ripped from him and it hurt him to say them to her.

She looked at him. Surer now. Firmer now. "You don't love me anymore."

And he wondered who she was trying harder to convince, him or herself. Who were they both trying to convince as they hung suspended so close to one another, their eyes feverishly running over the other, as if all they had known had been darkness and the other person held the light.

"It doesn't matter."

"No. I guess not." She pulled away from him. "I'd like to get up now, please."

So polite. So formal. Would this be the smooth path down which all their future conversations would flow? No surprising turns, no heady disruption in the consistency of the road, no heat. Just smooth, empty, nothing.

"Of course." He rose and walked away from her, putting some distance between the two of them.

She got up and smoothed down the non-existent wrinkles of that white dress.

"Congratulations on the…" Her voice trailed off.

"Thank you."

"I'm glad. I want you to know that. I'm glad."

"It wouldn't have happened if not for you."

"That's not true."

"Will you still stay on as the_"

"Only until someone else can take my place. I have to get back to_"

"Right. OPA. Of course."

Smooth. Empty. Nothing. He turned away from her as she walked towards the door.

With his back to her, he said, "That dress." His hand was curled into a fist at his side. "Is that for me?"

"Does it matter?"

"Are you_" He knew he should stop. But he couldn't stop. He knew this was the end and they should let it die. "Are you still seeing him?"

"It doesn't matter. Not anymore."

And then she was gone and he heard the door as it closed. Not with a clash or slam, but a small, quiet, click.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

Are you sharpening the stakes? Are you revving up the mob? Are you igniting, forever lighting your torches as you prepare to flame me? Do it in the reviews. I do so enjoy a slow, harsh burn. Thus burns the love of Fitz for Olivia—the eternal light in a world of darkness.

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12: Let Us Romanticize

It was bright. Overly bright. Around the edges, the things around him, the people (so many people) they glowed. Fitz wondered where the light was coming from. (From inside?) Did he glow too? People were talking. So many voices rising, intermingling with one another to form a sort of god-like gibberish roar. Like the sound that emanates from a shell when you put it to your ear: unintelligible rushing, rising. He looked down. There was a hand attached to his, he followed the arm all the way up to Mellie's smiling face.

"Are you all right Fitz?"

"What?"

"I'm sorry about the way I was in the car. What I said about not wanting to come inside. It's your 50th birthday. Of course you should be surrounded by people who love you."

The room, the smiling people holding glasses of (blood?) No of course not. It was red wine. They were holding glasses of red wine. A celebration for his 50th birthday. But didn't that mean that…Olivia. She would be here too. They had fought. The conversation, their last, they agreed. But where was she? And the light-it was blinding him.

"Who picked this place?" He asked looking at Mellie. She was glowing too. But that was alright, wasn't it? She was pregnant, wasn't she?

"What do you mean, Fitz? _You_ picked it."

"Right. Right. Of course."

She looked at him, confused and then laughed it off.

"Come on, darling. To the main room now. People are waiting to dedicate a toast to you. To wish you happy birthday."

Then Mellie took off sprinting. The lavender of her dress billowing like wisps of smoke behind her as she ran. So fast. How was she going so fast? Her long pale arm was still visible floating, as she beckoned him forward. And Fitz tried to follow. But it was hard. The bright harsh quality of everything was receding and things were taking on a soft blurry hue and Fitz could barely see in front of him as he walked.

He couldn't even see his shoes. The big room that had been filled with people holding glasses of (blood?) (blood?) (BLOOD?) red wine was now empty and he was alone.

"_COME ON FITZ! YOU DON'T WANT TO MISS THE BIG TOAST!"_

(Who said that?) A voice. Cyrus' voice. But where was it coming from?

"Cyrus?"

His voice reverberated in the empty room, echoing back at him. No response.

"I don't know. I can't…I don't know how to find you." Fitz said.

There was no reply. The big toast, he was missing it. It would read in the papers the next day: _President Too Important to Honor Birthday Celebrants With His Presence?_ He tried moving his legs. Moving in the direction into which Mellie and all her lavender had disappeared. But it was like he was on a treadmill. He could make no progress, remaining instead on the same four inches of ballroom floor.

"Goddammit." He said under his breath, "Goddamm_"

"Fitz?"

The blurry quality of the room receded and everything was solid once more. And there was Olivia in a gold dress standing right in front of him. His panic, his frustration, all of that disappeared into a distant, faraway past. He was looking at her. He was always happy when he was looking at her. And what a sight she was. The golden fabric skimming her curves, molding itself to her, until she was golden too. And wasn't she always golden? His golden girl.

"What are you doing out here?" She asked.

"Waiting for you." He said. He was always waiting for her. And wasn't it right that he should? She made everything better. Just by her presence, everything was better. As it should be. In its place.

"Oh." She said. She looked uncomfortable.

"What's wrong?"

He didn't understand. Couldn't figure it out. She looked to her right. He followed her line of vision and there looming, towering beside her: Edison. How did he miss him? His arm around the curve of Olivia's shoulder, his smile firm but polite.

"Senator Davis." Fitz said.

"President Grant, you'll be late for the toast. Everyone is waiting for you."

Olivia looked torn. Her teeth worrying her bottom lip, so full, so lush. She seemed to come to a decision.

"Edison, why don't you go ahead? Fitz and I…that is to say, President Grant and I will be with you shortly."

Edison put a hand, soft, to Olivia's face and Fitz wanted to cut it off.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" Edison asked, "He has nothing to offer you. He doesn't have enough. He never has." (Who said that?)

Olivia pulled Edison's hand from her face and backed away from him until she was standing next to Fitz.

"Let's go." She said, looking up into Fitz's eyes. And he thought that if all his life, his eyes only ever rested on the contours of Olivia's face, the peaks and the valleys, those wide brown eyes, it would be a life well spent.

"Where?" He asked and Edison was gone. Vanished to that place where lost things, that no one cares to look for, go.

"Anywhere." She said, smiling and they were walking. First down the hallway of the ballroom, then they were in the rose garden like magic and everything was magic with her. Magical that he could love someone so much, could want someone so much, the purest magic there was.

"Every time I see a rose, I think of you." She said, "Of being here with you." And her voice was like music carried and played by the wind.

He shook his head, "Everything is so scattered, so screwed up and_"

"Don't." She said, placing a hand over his mouth, "I know. Things right now are…but for now, we're here. This is our place. Our world."

"Our world," He repeated. Like a prayer.

"Yes. So let's…let's put on rose-tinted glasses."

He laughed.

She continued, "Let us romanticize all those things that exist in the other world. They don't exist. Not here."

And she was smiling as she said it so he kissed her. He couldn't help but kiss her. She opened her mouth to him and as he swept his tongue inside of her, tasting her, loving her, it felt like the most beautiful gift. And it shuddered him, all through him he was shaking, that she would offer this to him. That she always offered herself so freely to him. He held her closer, deepening their kiss.

"I don't want to lose you." He whispered and she smelled like roses. Her breath in his mouth, her taste on his tongue: roses.

He pushed her back against the wall of the gazebo, which stood in the center of the rose garden, like an island surrounded by water. This was their island. All around them roses, so many beautiful roses, they were untouchable here.

"I hate that you're here with him." He was burning kisses into her as he spoke. Her neck, her cheek, her tears and they tasted of roses. "I hate that you're with him. I hate the thought of him touching you like this, loving you like this."

"I know." She said, "I know."

He leaned in to kiss her again but she turned her face away from him. So he buried his nose in the crook of her neck instead. She tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck and he was at peace.

"It's not enough, Fitz." She whispered, "It's not enough, is it?"

"What's not enough?" He said, gripping hard onto her shoulders. Why did it seem like she was slipping further away from him. Becoming wispier, and more ill defined around her edges? Why did it seem that she was fading? What did he have to do to tie her to him? What did he have to do?

"What's not enough?" He asked her again.

"Everything you're offering." She said and her voice was fainter, like the wind. She was the wind. She was gone and Fitz was clutching useless at so much empty air.

"Olivia? Olivia!" He yelled into the wide and empty expanse of the rose garden. He was surrounded by roses. On an island buffeted by roses behind and before. And he was alone. So completely alone and it was killing him.

But then a voice.

"Olivia?" He asked.

"Time for the toast, darling." Mellie said and suddenly the garden was gone and he was at the head of a long dinner table. Mellie at his right and Cyrus on his left and Olivia was nowhere to be found. All around the table, faces he didn't recognize, people he didn't recognize, smiling. Raising glasses of (BLOOD?) (BLOOD?) (BLOOD?)

"Time for the toast." Mellie said again. And her smile was ominous. They all were ominous smiling at him. And Olivia, where was she? He needed her. He _needed _her.

"A toast!" Cyrus declared and his eyes were blood-red and his smile, "A toast!" He said again.

Then someone started screaming _something. _But Fitz couldn't make out the words. Something hit him _harsh _on the forehead and then again. He jerked backwards from the force of it. And they were all smiling at him still, their glasses of red upraised in toast to him. Fitz raised a shaking hand to his temple and when he pulled it away, it was covered with blood.

"OLIVIA!" He yelled but she was nowhere. "Olivia, _please_."

_It's not enough._ And then he was falling and everything was black.

/

"Fitz! Fitz!"

Someone shaking him. He jerked up, gasping. Salt, he could taste salt. There were tears on his face. He opened his eyes, staring straight into Mellie's steely gaze.

"You were yelling her name in your sleep. Again." She said.

"I was?"

"Yes." Mellie's face crumpled. She put a hand to her mouth and tears were pooling in her eyes. "When is it going to be enough, Fitz? When is it finally going to be enough?"

"Mellie, I'm sorr_"

"I'm going back to sleep," She said, turning away from him. But Fitz couldn't sleep. He stayed awake, staring at the wide and dark ceiling, thinking of another place that was dark too. But it was a darkness with dimension. A darkness with warmth. And all those roses.

/

Olivia stood in front of the door to OPA. Her fingernails digging into her palm. And in her head, like a mantra, the words: _He doesn't love you. He doesn't love you anymore._ She pushed the door open. On the other side: Abby, Quinn and Harrison waiting for her. Here was a place where she could forget. Where she could lose herself. And Huck waiting in a dark hole for her to rescue him. That was something that she _could_ do and do it well. Here were people that needed her and needed her desperately. She would not fail them.

"What's the status on Huck?" She asked.

Her voice was firm and unyielding and it seemed that all in the room exhaled a collective sigh of relief. Olivia was here. Olivia would handle this. Olivia would fix things. And all would soon be put to rights as it had been before.

* * *

Dear gladiators,

Do I thank you? I feel like I don't do it enough. Thank you for all your reviews. I do read them, all of them, and I love them all. The flames, the balm for my flamed flesh, I don't care. Positive or negative, it is a treat to hear what you think about this story. It is a credit to Shonda's creation that you all feel so passionately about her characters. How do you feel about this chapter? Won't you tell me so? Leave me love. Or hate. I'm not partial :)

Your SOFIC,

GSquare3


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